No Regrets and No Time Wasted

As I've struggled with getting older, I have also struggled with my pets aging, particularly Tess.   I hadn't really thought about it much until her ninth birthday this past March, when it suddenly hit me that Tess isn't going to live forever, and nine is the equivelent to about 50 or 60 in human years.  Tess is a senior citizen, while I am still middle-aged.  True, I'm on the wrong side of 35, but since beloved and gorgeous actresses like Jennifer Aniston and Cameron Diaz have taken 40 by the balls and dragged it kicking and screaming into the 21st Century as the new sexy, vibrant, desirable woman, it's not bothering me so much. I much prefer a Jennifer Aniston to a Miley Cyrus or a Selena Gomez anyway.  Thanks to the new science of aging putting a new spin on 40 and even 50, 40 has become the new 30.  My "scary age" was actually 34.  Once I hit 34, hyperventilated, drank a bottle of wine, and cried, 35, 36, and even 37 were a piece of cake (literally as I made sure to eat a lot of cake on all of those birthdays).

Through all these birthdays in my thirties, Tess has been a true and faithful companion.  I define my thirties by owning Tess because I adopted her right before my 30th birthday.  We share a birth month.  I picked her up right after her birthday and a couple of weeks before mine. She was my thirtieth birthday present to myself.

Still, even though I know Tess is getting older and she is nine now, I haven't worried too much until the other morning when I took her for a run.  If I take Tess for a run in the morning before work, it's early enough that I can take her to the dog park and there is no one else around.  She likes to chase the cars through the fence.  We haven't gone in awhile because I've been taking her on different routes and letting her run loose along the river, but she still remembers racing the cars and trying to beat them to the end fence line.  That particular morning she started her usual race and made it two or three times before she trotted unsteadily over to me, huffing like she was about to explode.  She actually sat at my feet for a moment to catch her breath.  My dog does not sit when she's outside unless I instruct her to.  She is always moving, always has her nose in a clump of  grass, and as long as I've had her, I've never known her to take a rest while she's on a walk.  Resting is for in the house at night or on the porch in the backyard when I'm at work.

That's when I realized my dog is old.  She is slowing down. While her spirit is still willing to run and jump and play, her body isn't quite so forgiving anymore.  

Percy and Puckett are both eight. Puckett might be older, but since I have no idea what her true age is, I'm going with eight, like Percy.  Willow is around six.  The cats are still in middle aged territory like me.

The car, my little green 2004 Honda Accord, is reaching senior citizen status as well, and the other day I panicked when the starter had issues, thinking I might have to buy a new car.  If that's the case I"ll be devastated.  That car has never given me an ounce of trouble which is more than I can say for the pets.  I love that car.  It's paid off, it's cute, it runs well.  I have never had to take it in for anything more serious than an oil change (and body work when idiots run into me).  It turned out the starter issues were just a bad battery and once that's switched out, the car will be fine.

Age is a funny thing.  Logically it's just a number.  I'm 38 but I don't feel "thirty-eight," whatever that feels like.  I remember being eighteen and thinking thirty was old.  I still feel like I did in my twenties.  My energy level is the same, I look the same, and other than some bouts with depression and loneliness, I feel mostly the same.  The things that have changed since my twenties are mostly my own perception.  For example eighteen-year-olds irritate me to no end now, where I used to be quite tolerant of them.  People in their twenties amuse me with their "have it all figured out" attitudes when I know that really, they haven't even begun to scratch the surface. I have a much lower bullshit tolerance than I used to.  I own a house and I no longer take shots or go on weekend party binges.  Now when I date, I'm looking for potential long term mates so I assess men differently than I did.  In my twenties, hot played a pretty large role in whether I'd go out with a guy.  Now, kindness, honesty, and how does he make me feel are more important.  Don't get me wrong, he still has to be able to give me the shivering fits, but I'm not looking for Brad Pitt here.  Things like whether he makes more money than me, does he wear socks with sandals, is he taller than me, and does he look like a great big dork don't really factor in.  I kind of like great big dorks.  I think geeks and dorks are sexy.

That old cliche of knowing the things you know now when you were much younger is alive and well.  Had I known then what I know now I probably could have spared myself a lot of heartache.  But I would have passed on some fun experiences too.  I spare myself a lot of superficiality now.  I no longer have the patience to wear a lot of makeup or spend a lot of time on my hair. I'd rather walk my dog. I also know now that what I put on my body and in it makes a huge difference in how I feel physically, so I watch what I eat and I use natural skin care products (coconut oil and avocados are my favorite).  I may still be vain - I will make damn sure I look like this until I'm fifty - but I don't have time to be superficial.  The more I worry about stupid stuff that doesn't matter, the less time I spend with my dog, enjoying every precious moment I have left with her.

That's another thing that aging changes.  Sure, I look the same, feel the same, and mostly act the same, but now I am well aware of the hourglass.  The sand is running out.  Thirty-eight is still young.  I still have a few years left to have a baby, but that window is shrinking. When I was in my twenties I thought I had loads of time.  Now I know I have more like three years.  I have time left to publish those novels.  I have time to travel through Europe and visit Hawaii.  I have time to find a husband and get married.  But my time with my dog is limited, my time with my parents is limited, my nieces and nephews are no longer babies and growing up, and while time marches on, we eventually stop.  We don't think about that in our twenties.  The experience and wisdom of aging tunes us into that feeling of "Where has the time gone?"

Let's make the most of the time we have left.  More walks with the dog.  More phone conversations with the parents.  Visits to my  nieces and nephews.  Telling people what they mean to me and making amends if I've wronged them.  I've already started. Nothing lasts forever.  Let's have no regrets.

Confidence

Puckett's confidence amazes me.

She's very subtle about it too.  It took me awhile to realize just how much confidence this cat has because she is so effortless about it.  She conducts herself in a manner that, when one watches her, really watches her, is beautiful in its subtlety.  I just noticed this when I saw her sitting on the floor of the living room the other day, so sure of herself and the fact that everyone will step around her, step over her, or whatever.  It never even crossed her mind that the dog would stomp all over her or that I would trip over her.  This simply could not happen.

And it didn't.

After noticing this, I thought back over other times when she demonstrated this air of confidence: Sprawling full length on one of the middle steps to the third landing, not bothering to move when I race down the stairs or Tess races up.  Parking herself on the top step of the staircase down to the living room, just behind the gate, knowing that I will literally jump over that step in my effort to avoid her.  Flipping her tail right in my path as I barrel past her in the bedroom in the morning so that I skip to the side at the last minute.  Twining around my ankles and then sitting right in front of me as I stumble because she knows I won't fall on her even if I have to throw myself to the side and break an arm in the process.

Okay, I have not broken an arm yet, but it's coming.  I feel it.

She waits until the very last minute, until I have pushed the vacuum cleaner nearly up to her nose before she will leave the room, a snotty look thrown over her shoulder at me with a "How dare you?" expression on her face.  Her favorite game is to sit by the floor-level kitchen cupboard, wait patiently to get Tess' attention, and then bang the door with her paw because she knows she will always get a reaction out of the dog.  If the dog ignores her at first, she waits until Tess is looking at her and then she'll bang the door several times for good measure.  This always spurs the dog into action.  She gets up and paces around the kitchen with Puckett capering behind her or beside her, almost as if they are dancing.  Tess will pause and Puckett will weave back and forth in front of her, running her tail under the dog's nose and purring loudly.  When Tess finally gets tired of the game, she will lie down and Puckett will sit between her front legs while Tess licks her ears.  I believe the cabinet-banging is an invitation for Tess to dance.  If Tess rejects the invitation, well, Puckett DEMANDS it.  And, of course, Tess complies because, like the rest of us, she is powerless over Puckett's allure.

Puckett is so sure of her rank in the pack.  Tess and Percy are fairly confident animals too, but Puckett is still the Queen Bee.  The dog knows it, the other cats know it, and I know it.  If she does not want to be moved from a spot she is sitting in, she will dig in with all four sets of claws and station herself firmly.  She cannot be moved without destroying the bedspread or couch cover.  The only way to move her is to deliberately pretend to sit on her, and even then I almost have to actually sit on her.  We all defer to her.  She doesn't entertain the thought that we wouldn't.  Perhaps this is why we do defer to her.  Her confidence is so absolute that we defer to it like we don't even have a choice in the matter, and what's more, we don't think twice about it.  Her confidence is that absolute and confidence, I have learned over the last few months, is attractive.

We are all attracted to Puckett's orbit.  We all want to be around her.

Here is this extremely overweight, tabby and white, middle-aged pound cat.  No one looked twice at her at the Dog and Cat Shelter when I found her because she was half bald and sick with a respiratory infection.  No one would have imagined that she would become this commanding presence, this leader of the pack that could make a seventy-pound German shepherd do her bidding.  I've noticed lately that Willow has been trying to emulate her.  Imitation is the highest form of flattery, after all. Willow tries to herd the dog around, she sits in Puckett's spots, and she always wants to eat out of Puckett's bowl.  Puckett will shoo her away every time, but Willow still tries.  She is currently sitting on the arm of the couch while I write which is one of Puckett's favorite spots.  Another one is the back of the couch.  Willow has recently started parking herself there as well, almost as if she'd been watching Puckett these last few months.  "If I behave like Puckett, I can become like Puckett!"

Willow's problem is, while emulating Puckett is admirable, she is still too high-strung and spazzy to truly pull it off, so the other animals still treat her like the annoying younger sister.  Her actions mirror Puckett's, but she doesn't have the inner confidence and personality to back it up.  "Fake it till you make" it isn't exactly working for her, though she could definitely pick a much worse role model.

I wish I had Puckett's confidence.  I wish I could move through life with the ease that Puckett does.  She doesn't care if someone doesn't like her.  It doesn't affect her.  Also it doesn't matter anyway because she has the power to change their minds, like my friend who was here once for dinner and announced that out of my three cats, Willow was the cutest and Percy the most interesting personality.  Puckett was cute, but Willow had the face and body that just made her adorable.  Puckett had ignored us until then.  Almost as if she understood him, she marched up to his chair, sat down by the side of it, looked up at him, and chirped her trademark, high-pitched, kitten meow.  He looked down at her, properly chastised, and said, "Okay, I take it back.  That was adorable."  I told him maybe next time he'll think twice about insulting Puckett.

Tess, Percy, and Willow all ingratiate themselves to guests when they come over.  Puckett is more reserved.  Her good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth the earning.  I want to be like that.  I want to go through life not caring what others think of me.  I want to adopt the magical thinking of not giving a fuck.  I want to be able to change people's opinions about me because I don't care, because I don't have to even try to impress them because in my mind, they are already impressed.  I want to know without the shadow of a doubt that someone won't step on me or my heart or my feelings because to do so is unfathomable in my mind.

I want to know that I matter and have faith that I have a purpose.

Most of all I want to know that I have a few close intimate friends that love me no matter what because they are my family, because they look up to me and respect me.  They love me unconditionally and even in a moment of weakness, their love and admiration is unshakable.  Out of everything, Puckett is most sure of this.

I'm working on it.  Taking a page from Puckett's book, I've been practicing confidence in my online dating capers.  It is a confidence booster getting responses online from guys who actually want to meet me, and I just need to act like Puckett.  Why wouldn't these guys want to get to know me? Like Puckett, the thought should never cross my mind that they wouldn't.  Unfortunately it's not as easy for me as it is Puckett.

I've met few animals like Puckett and even fewer people.  She's not the most beautiful cat in the world, but she acts like she is. She's smarter than most people and all dogs.  She is secure in the knowledge that she is loved and respected.  She shows empathy and love in return because she genuinely cares about those closest to her.  Tess, Percy, and Willow all have their insecurities like I do.  They have their faults.  But Puckett is our steady, quiet leader, the leader because she knows to the bottom of her heart, that it can't be any other way.  That it would never be any other way.  She has never acted arrogantly, just extremely sure of herself, and that is what makes her so attractive.

That's confidence.  That's believing in yourself.

If a twenty pound house cat can do it, we all should be able to as well.

It's Just a Little Crush

We never really graduate from high school, do we?

And nothing sends us spiraling back to the bowels of that hell known as middle school than a new crush.  I haven't had a real crush since the cutie from last August who was way too young for me. I suppose I could count Zack as a crush as well since I totally fell in love with the picture of a German shepherd without knowing anything about him.

Suddenly I find myself thinking about one of the actors in the play I saw on my birthday.  We have mutual friends, he seems to be the perfect sort of dork that I like, and while I moon over him, he's happily going through life oblivious as a Labrador Retriever because I can't seem to figure out a way to let him know of my interest without looking like a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.  I asked one of my friends to put a bug in his ear and my friend said, "You know, I could just slip him a note before study hall."

Touche.

The funny thing I've noticed about crushes is that animal crushes are not much different from human crushes.  I've had lots of animal crushes in the past despite the fact that I'm happily attached to the four beasts I have.  Every time I pass a German shepherd riding by in a car, I do a head turn.  I almost gave myself whiplash on a particular walk.  A great looking guy drove by in a green truck, and while great looking guys are fun to look at and green is my favorite color, I was actually gawking at the gorgeous creature riding in the bed - a half-grown German shepherd puppy.  My dog shares this with me.  If she sees a German shepherd riding in the bed of a truck, she does a head turn as well, and once she even ran face first into a sign because she was gawking so hard. 

Tess is still the most beautiful dog in the world to me, but I can't help myself whenever I see a shepherd.  Lately they seem to be everywhere in this town. I can't leave the house without feeling my heart skip a beat every time I see a shepherd head hanging out the window of some car.

I developed another crush last summer when several friends and I attended an event celebrating the TV show, Longmire, based on books written by local author, Craig Johnson.  Craig Johnson owns Bernese Mountain Dogs and always has since I've known him. This has created a trend in the area, and Bernese Mountain Dogs are everywhere, like shepherds.  They are particularly popular among the local Craig Johnson fan club.  A lady was helping out at the event, selling souvenirs promoting the show, and she'd brought along her gorgeous dog, Woodrow.  He was the size of a small horse, sported a gorgeous shiny black coat, and sprawled on the floor at his mistress' feet like a bearskin rug.  I could not keep my hands off him.  I tried to hold a conversation with a guy I met there, but every few minutes I dropped to my knees to fondle the dog's ears and play with his enormous paws.  Eventually it became a joke between me and the guy (who has since become a good friend).  He kept saying I was neglecting poor Woodrow because thirty seconds had passed since I'd last petted him and I'd better rectify the situation immediately before Woodrow went through withdrawal. 

Or maybe before I did.

I still think fondly of Woodrow.  I don't exactly wish he was mine, but I'm not going to lie and say that I'd turn him down if he somehow showed up on my doorstep.

I crushed on a pit bull/boxer mix at the animal shelter a couple of years ago.  I started frequenting the shelter every Saturday just to hang out with him for awhile.  I never adopted him because I was at that time of my life when I didn't think I could handle two dogs, but that didn't stop me from gazing longingly at him from afar and dreaming about what it would be like to own him.  I had specific fantasies of walking down the street, Tess on one side, the pit bull mix on the other, scaring people right and left with my two fearsome dogs.  It doesn't get much more crush-like than that.  How many of us have sat around dreaming about a crush and envisioning a perfect fantasy future together?

The dog did eventually get adopted and I hope his reality home is better than my fantasy home.

I've had several horse crushes.  Those are the worst because as much as I would love to have a horse, that is one dream I probably won't realize.  I don't really know how to take care of a horse, I have no room for a horse, and let's face it, what does one do with a horse?  I can't ride for beans.  The horse I learned to ride on was a Quarter Horse mare named Crazy Woman and I was crazy about her.  After I  moved out here, I spent a weekend with a friend on her family's ranch and they put me on a retired cutting horse named Toby.  Toby and I lagged behind a lot because he was old and I was terrified, but near the end of the ride he started feeling his oats and tried to charge a bull.  Oh, the adventures Toby and I had, and I continue to dream about him.  Then there was my major horse crush, my ex-boyfriend's roping horse, Kid.  I loved Kid.  I always got to ride him when I visited my ex out on his family's ranch.  Kid was a small, bay gelding with cute little ears.  He liked to nuzzle my hair and I liked to pretend he was mine. I miss him more than my ex.

Around a crush one notices small physical changes, like shortness of breath, elevated heartbeat, a slight flushing of the skin, maybe sweaty palms, and the total inability to create reasonable speech.  One just wants to be in the crush's orbit, possibly more to keep the feeling of euphoria than any true merit on the crush's part.  My current crush is cute, funny, and talented.  The few times I've been in his orbit I have produced such gems as "Hi" and "I loved your performance" and "You're such a riot."  I can't make eye contact because that might give him the idea that I actually find him interesting (Heaven forbid), and I can't seem to stop from bolting for the door or hiding behind a friend every time I realize he's in my proximity.  It's not that being in his presence necessarily gives me the shivering fits, I just can't seem to string words together to make a normal sentence whenever I'm around him.  I don't want to marry this guy, just like I don't want to own any of my animal crushes.  I just want the chance to get to know him, maybe be friends.  He seems like he'd be a fun friend, just like Woodrow seemed like he'd make a fun bearskin rug.  For all I know my crush is a total tool (evidence does point to the opposite though). He might think I'm a shy little mess.  We might decide we hate each other.  Most likely, when I actually have a conversation with him the mystery will disappear and he will be restored to human being status so I can stop acting like I'm in junior high around him. If I actually had to live with Woodrow my loveglow would probably wear off when I realize he sheds the equivalent of another dog and takes up half the size of one of my rooms.

And yet, the crush is fun. It's fun having someone to think about, even if it's all fantasy.  The spark of excitement when I see my human crush or a picture of Woodrow makes me feel alive and gives me hope again.  Hope that there are nice, funny, sweet guys out there, and that yes, it is possible for me to love another dog since I'm perpetually terrified of losing Tess.  I can't wait to see Woodrow again this summer at Longmire Days.  As for my crush, well I can't wait for the next play, if for no other reason than I can enjoy watching his talent without making a complete ass of myself.

"You're such a good puppy dog, yes you are!" and a belly rub work for Woodrow.  Now let's see if I can generate something a bit more intelligent than "Duuuhhhrrrr, you're nice" the next time I run into my human crush.

After all, it's just a little crush.

The beautiful and enormous Woodrow

The Road to Heaven is Cleaned with Dysons

Life for pet owners holds few pleasures greater than possession of a really good vacuum cleaner.

After ten years my faithful old Dyson is starting to fall to pieces.  The Cowboy has fixed it a few times, extending its life for another two years, but the writing was on the wall a couple of weeks ago. It was time to buy a new vacuum.

The writing was mostly there because the hose on my old Dyson tore again (this is the third time) and the Cowboy is God knows where and has been for weeks now so there was no one to fix it.  I also have this Eureka someone gave me that just doesn't even hold a candle to my old Dyson, let alone a new one.

I got my tax return so I figured why not treat myself to a brand new Dyson?  Having researched and read up on the latest models, I discovered that their suction is even stronger than the old ones (and mine has never lost suction), and that they have these balls that apparently make them easier to maneuver (I love mine, but it is heavy and awkward to get around, especially with all the stairs in my house).

The thing about pets is that no matter how much I love them, I am actually allergic and their hair bothers me.  I vacuum at least every other day.  Willow is half Persian which means she has a cobby body, and while her hair is short, it's superfine and thick and gets into EVERYTHING - my clothes, my food, my nose.  I might have a Willow hair stuck perpetually in my nose.  I don't know, I keep sneezing.  Puckett sheds constantly because she doesn't bother to clean herself.  She lets Percy do it.  And Tess, being a German shepherd, just has that kind of fur.  She blows her coat twice a year, but she also sheds continuously, leaving piles of fur wherever she goes.  My animals are allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed or on the arms of the couch, but I can't have them right on top of me or on the pillow next to me.  There is one exception to this.  Percy has slept under the covers with me occasionally and he sometimes curls up against me while I watch TV on the couch.  His fur bothers me the least.  He grooms constantly and he has a different kind of fur than Puckett and Willow.  I think he might be part Russian Blue, a breed with a naturally hypoallergenic coat.

I ended up purchasing the Dyson Ball Multifloor.  I considered the Dyson Cinetic Big Ball but it was a little too pricey even for the comfort of owning a truly amazing vacuum cleaner.

No matter.  I'm quite happy with my purchase.  Now my old Dyson has awesome suction and it hasn't lost it over the years, but this new one packs a wallop.  I'd already vacuumed my bedroom once with the old one and went over the carpet again with my new one just to see what else I could suck up.

Within five minutes the canister was full of powdery dirt mixed with leftover baking soda.  There was also more dog hair and I thought I'd gotten all of it.  I have to say, I was officially grossed out.  If all that has been in my carpet over the years, then ew.

Also after much treatment with carpet cleaners and a pile of baking soda on the spot Willow decided to pee on, the new vacuum cleaner sucked all the nastiness out of there and it doesn't even smell.

Here I thought nothing can get rid of the stench of cat pee.  To be fair, I did dump lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, and two different carpet cleaners on it along with a box of baking soda, and then waited for all of it to dry in fresh air before running the vacuum over it.  Still, the result was impressive.

As an aside, for anyone who wants to get cat pee out of their carpet, here is what I discovered:  First I mixed water with carpet cleaner and soaked the pee spot.  Then I squirted lemon juice right over the spot.  I let it dry for a day.  Then I mixed water with dish detergent and hydrogen peroxide and poured that on the spot.  I let that soak for a day.  Then I dumped apple cider vinegar on the spot and added a box of baking soda.  By then the days had gotten nice and warm so I just propped my back door open and let the carpet air dry.  If the soiled carpet isn't near a window or door or it's the middle of winter, a fan can be used to help dry the spot.  Once everything was dry I vacuumed up the baking soda.

So it does take several days, but cat pee can be conquered.

I hope, anyway...

Back to the Dyson.  The wand is pretty amazing too.  I use the wand a lot because I have mostly hard floors now and it's easier to just suck up the loose hair with the wand.  I also use the flat attachment to run over Percy because he follows the vacuum cleaner around while I clean, waiting for his turn.  The new wand sucked up a plastic bag, the loose strands off an old piece of carpet Willow uses as a scratching pad, and it nearly sucked up the cat.  It stuck to him and I couldn't peel it off without shutting off the machine.

Percy was not amused.  The look of disgust on his face told me he preferred the old vacuum as it doesn't try to flay him alive.  This thing could pull the fur off a mink and probably turn it into a coat. I didn't even bother to suck Percy's tail into the wand like I sometimes do because for some reason he likes that too.  If I try that with the new wand, he probably won't get the tail back. I've sucked paws and ears in too just to get a reaction out of him and he purrs and rolls over.  I don't dare try that with this new vacuum.  I"m afraid I won't get my cat back.

And I really don't want to destroy my new vacuum by sucking an entire cat into it.  It wasn't the most expensive vacuum, but it still cost a pretty penny.  I imagine a cat might damage the mechanism.  Also, I don't think he'll fit in the canister.

I have to say it is a sad day for me when the highlight of my last couple of weeks is not drinks with pals on a Friday night; it's not a morning run with my dog in the park; it's not editing my novel; and it's not a fantastic date with some amazing guy.

Nope, the highlight of my last couple of weeks is buying a Dyson and then spending all morning vacuuming my floors.  Yes, and enjoying it too.

I think I might need Evan Marc Katz's help again.  Unfortunately, if I can't afford the Super Dyson I have no hope with his coaching fee.  I suppose the vacuum and I will be very happy together.

How to be a Law Breaking Felon

Boy, do the cops in this town need something to do.

Don't get me wrong.  Cops are cool.  I'm even good friends with a cop (I think.  He might be mad at me after he reads this).  My brother's best friend is a cop.  I love Criminal Minds, Law and Order SVU  (love that Detective Benson), and CSI Miami (there is something about David Caruso and his sunglasses move - you know what I'm talking about).   I have the love jones for Zahn McClarnon who plays a rez cop on the show Longmire.  But the cops around here?  They need a life.

But then, I'm one to talk.  I spend so much time with my pets, they're codependent.

I finally got busted.  It happened.  I knew it would and I was just waiting for it.  I knew I was breaking the law, I knew I deserved a reprimand.  I was just unprepared for how furious it made me.  I think maybe it happened during the worst possible week and I had already been busted twice for stupid things recently, one on my birthday when I was already feeling sensitive.

I've been running Tess loose for months now.  We have a route.  We go down to the river, follow it, go back along the walking path and to the mostly deserted park near my house, and then home.  She is off leash most of the time which is technically against the law in city limits.  Besides the one time she made a jogger wet her pants, Tess has been a model citizen.  If I see other people around or I see dogs loose, I leash her.  Most of the time I make sure the surrounding area is completely deserted before I let Tess off the leash.  I'm not an idiot.  I know how to control my dog.  She does not go up to fenced yards when dogs are barking at her.  If I call her back she comes to me almost immediately.  That poor lady jogger was an anomaly.  It was just her lucky day, I think.  Like cats attracted to anyone who is allergic to them, so Tess is attracted to anyone who is terrified of her.  She just wants to make friends. She doesn't understand that people might find her the devil.

I don't get that anyway.  She's so cute.  I mean, she is the best dog in the world.  Wouldn't hurt a fly.  Okay, she would totally hurt a fly and a wasp and probably a douchebag if he threatened me, but most people?  She loves people.  She loves cats.  She loves most other dogs.  She's a big ball of love.

So the other day Tess was down by the river taking a dump and here comes Mr. Animal Control in his Great Big Truck.  I don't think he's a real cop.  He gets to wear the uniform and drive the marked vehicle, but really, he's driving around looking for loose dogs.  That badge and gun are just for show.  He must have been bored out of his mind.

"Excuse me ma'am, are you aware that you should have your dog leashed within city limits?"

"I'm sorry, officer, she needed to go to the bathroom."

"I understand it's hard when your dog wants to go to the bathroom and sniff around, but you have to keep your dog restrained."

"Yes, officer.  Of course, officer."

They always "understand," don't they?

He proceeded to lecture me, demand my name, address, phone number, and birth date, and then let me off with a warning.  All with "ma'am" at the end of each sentence.  I don't mind leashing my dog. I think what pissed me off the most was asking my birth date and the lecture.  I was probably older than him.  Looks can be deceiving.  I've run into that with cops before.  I look like I'm twenty-four so when they pull me over they act all bad ass, and then when they return my license there's a note of respect in their voices, like they hadn't realized I am old enough to be their mothers.  They lay off the "You dumb kid" attitude and adopt a more "I can actually relate to you because you're an adult" demeanor.  I kind of wanted to ask him if he needed Tess' name and birth date as well.  I asked him if he really needed my birth date.

"Yes, ma'am."

Oh, cut the ma'am.  Seriously, it's so patronizing. Especially when they think I am still only twenty-four.   Do I look like a "ma'am" to you?  Yes, as it turns out, I'm old.  Thanks for rubbing it in.

I should have lied.

I wonder what would have happened if I'd started singing the International Friendship Song?  I think one needs two other siblings to really drive that song home and sufficiently drive a law enforcement officer up a wall, but Tess and I probably could have pulled it off.  I'm sure I would have ended up in jail.  Can you imagine that phone call?  "So, hey, there, person I called from jail.  Can you come bail me out?  They arrested me after I was caught walking my dog off leash and I tried to get away with it by singing the International Friendship Song."

I've been watching way too much Animaniacs.

You're just asking for trouble asking a woman her age.  My cop friend did tell me later that yes, they do need your birth date when you are caught breaking such a serious law because they have to check if there are any warrants out for your arrest.

Well, of course.  I am a dangerous criminal.  I have my license plate sticker in the wrong corner of my license plate.  I go five miles per hour over the speed limit past the library on a deserted road.  I let my well-behaved German shepherd run off leash.  Yes, these are all infractions I have been busted for.  I am a rebel.  I am crazy.  I'm amazed they haven't locked my punk ass up yet.

They might if this blog ever goes viral.  There is nothing cops hate more than a smart ass.  Probably why Yakko, Wakko, and Dot are always getting chased by that security cop.

My cop friend is a smart ass himself, and he's the one who put a Glock in my hands, so really, are cops always playing with a full deck?

Anyway, I was totally expecting to get busted eventually.  I'm not really mad about that.  But in the space of a few weeks I got pulled over for barely speeding, having my license plate sticker in the wrong corner of my plate, and running my dog off leash.  I had a friend who had our resident lady cop pull up behind her at the gas station for speeding and ask her if she did that often. My friend said, "What, pump gas?  Yes, every day before I go to work."  The lady cop was horrified that my friend was aware of her rear radar and still had the nerve to speed.

They just haven't had much to do lately and we've had several new ones come into town, looking for any reason to pull someone over and prove themselves.  This is small-town Wyoming.  I hate to break it to the rookies coming in, but nothing happens here outside of the occasional drug bust (because that's how bored people are).  It's utopia. The cops are just bored and they are taking it out on us placid citizens who aren't really doing anything to endanger the public.  I mean really, there is a registered sex offender across the street from my house creating tattoos for morons (and several of my ex-boyfriends, not that the two are mutually exclusive) probably without a license and the cops are bothering me.

Cops aren't on my happy list right now.  And Tess didn't even bound up to the animal control officer's truck when he stopped and try to climb in.  So obviously she didn't appreciate him interrupting her morning toilette.  Meanwhile my cop friend has the nerve to laugh every time I say something rude about cops.  Like he thinks I'm being cute or something.

At least he hasn't called me "ma'am" yet.

Cops are actually really not that bad.  I just feel like lately they have it out for me. Again like attracts like, and my miserable, law-breaking attitude is obviously attracting the cops.  Plus, I still think they are jealous of the fact that I have this amazing, beautiful, intelligent German shepherd who probably belongs in the K9 Unit and they just wish they had her.  I think they might be following her, gazing at her longingly.

I don't blame them.  If she wasn't mine, I'd be jealous too.

Me with a Glock

My vicious, crazy dog running loose by the river.  Look how happy she is!

Rejection

The universe has a funny way of throwing things in your path that you have previously convinced yourself you don't want, need, or care about.

For instance, I had decided, way back when I adopted Tess and Percy, that I did not want more than one cat.  One cat is fine.  More than one cat just causes issues like litter box aversion.

Somehow I now have three cats.  I'm still not sure how that happened, and yes, one of the cats does engage in litter box aversion.  And yet, I stubbornly hang on to her, modifying my life and daily rituals in order to keep her from peeing on the floor, just because I can't imagine my life without her.  When I first got Tess and Percy, I couldn't imagine my life with her and no, absolutely under no circumstances would I consider adopting another cat!

So I adopted two more.

I have also had the same opinion about relationships the last few months, deciding that I neither want nor need one, they are more trouble than they are worth, and they are way too much work.  I can bury my sex drive.  I don't need this shit in my life. 

That was until I realized I still have a sex drive, so of course I did everything I could to force that down and run screaming for my life away from the person who had the nerve to spark it.  Those damn hormones.  They'll get to you every time.

For years now I've been saying one dog is enough.  After my disastrous trial with Harley, the hound from hell that tried to rip Tess' throat out, I decided that I would never again attempt to own two dogs.  Two dogs are just too much work and I already have three cats that are too much work.  Tess is so well-trained, so easygoing, and so settled in a routine that I would never want to add another dog that would come in and teach her all sorts of bad habits.

Then while surfing Petfinder.com I came across Zack, a beautiful long-haired male German shepherd who was eight years old and had the same look on his face that Puckett had when she coerced me into adopting her.  I looked at his profile for a couple of days and finally decided to contact the rescue about him.  I figured the lady in charge would tell me she didn't adopt out that far away (three hours), or he was already spoken for, or he had a list of people waiting to meet him and she'd get back to me.  Instead she gave me some background on Zack and sent me an application.  Frankly, he sounded perfect.  He was close to Tess' age with an extremely quiet temperament.  He'd been neglected as a younger dog and then fell in the hands of a pet hoarder where no one really paid much attention to him.  No vaccinations, he wasn't fixed.  The neighbors eventually found him in the road and brought him to the rescue where he was vetted, fixed, and put in foster care until a forever home could be found.  I asked the lady if he was housebroken, if he was a barker, if he was aggressive or dominant, and she said he was extremely laid back, would do well with another dog, and Tess sounded particularly good for him because Zack was definitely not alpha.  He didn't bark. He was housetrained and could do a few tricks, and most of all he just needed a quiet loving home where he could live out the rest of his life in peace.

I thought he sounded great.  He and Tess could be two old fogies living out there retirement together.  I think Tess is getting kind of lonely, so this might be good for her.  The woman from the rescue sounded enthusiastic as well.  She seemed to be willing to consider adopting him out to me.  She said my application checked out and that Tess sounded perfect for Zack.  I sent an email to her saying that I would love to meet him and...crickets.

I felt like I was online dating again.  Suggest meeting and they disappear never to be heard from again.  Maybe I felt like I was just dating in general again.  Things get too serious and they disappear.  My Texas best friend and I used to joke that our ex-boyfriends joined the army and were on special secret black ops missions so they couldn't contact us anymore or even answer messages.  I believe in today's culture now this is called "ghosting." I am very familiar with "ghosting" and I do not like it.

My Texas friend has been married nine years and no longer needs to worry about this.

I waited several days and finally emailed the lady again, letting her know I was just following up on Zack.  She emailed me back immediately and said he was getting picked up by a family the next day and hopefully this will be his forever home.

Well, thanks for telling me.  Again I felt like I was dating.  Seriously, how hard is it to email someone and say, thanks but no thanks, or you are number two or three on the list and we'll call you if something changes?  I have heard the word "no" many, many times.  It will not devastate me.  I will not go crazy on someone and start threatening to key their cars.  This goes for men too.  If one is no longer interested in seeing me, even a simple text of "Buzz off, I don't want to see you anymore" is better than just disappearing without a trace.  I am a writer.  I handle rejection very well.  I've been dumped by plenty of men. (See? This is why I'm done with relationships).   I've been rejected by all the jobs I've interviewed for in the past few months. I think my favorite rejection was from Durango.  They said, "We've decided to pursue one of our other options."  I appreciated them telling me that, but I still thought, "Wow, that's what all my boyfriends say when they break up with me."

Not really, since most of my boyfriends have just pulled that ghosting shit.

Hey, when I'm told to buzz off, I buzz off.  I'm not going to hang around bothering someone who clearly has no interest in being around me anymore.

All I ask is to please have the courtesy to tell the rejectee that you are rejecting them.  It really isn't that hard.  I remember when breaking up with someone over the phone was considered bad form and now I'm actually happy with at least a text or email that says "Get lost." When I called about adopting Tess all those years ago they told me upfront that she was probably already spoken for but they would call me if something changed and the original adoption fell through.  They called me the next day, and I appreciated that they basically told me not to get my hopes up. 

This is why I don't date anymore.  And I refuse to admit that I still have a sex drive.  And I definitely do not need another dog!  I'm still a glutton for punishment because I can't stop writing and sharing it with the world which guarantees rejection.

I was right the first time and the universe can go hang itself.

Looking Out into the Great Black Abyss

Somewhere along the way, my fearless, overconfident, full-of-herself German shepherd lost her confidence in going outside after dark.  This has been going on for two weeks now.  Since I got her eight years ago, she's been spending almost all of her days outside where she has a porch with a roof, tubs filled with water, a doghouse filled with straw, and a yard filled with interesting things to sniff and watch.  Her favorite thing to do in the summer is snap up wasps and flies.  I can tell it's been a good day when the porch floor is littered with the carcasses of yellow jackets.  This is not a habit I discourage my dog from doing.  She is free to destroy all the yellow jackets she wants.

Some days she sacks out full length on the porch and takes a nap.  Other times she sits on the porch and watches the cars go by, or growls at the crazy neighbor across the street while he putters around, hollering at his dog and just generally making a nuisance of himself.  She is free to glare at him and his customers all she wants.  Being a tattoo artist he has started attracting gutter trash as far as the next town, including several ex-boyfriends, and I don't mind it if Tess wants to sit and glare across the street and make everyone nervous.

Tess and the outdoors are old friends.  I consider her a house dog because she is in the house with me when I'm home and I keep her inside on days when the weather is particularly nasty, but for the most part she enjoys the outdoors.  There is a lot more for her to do and see when she's outside rather than being bored in the house while I'm at work.  Plus she absolutely adores her walks.  As soon as I put my sneakers on she starts doing the doggy happy dance and she's content to be outside all day, running and sniffing.

So what's her deal lately with going outside after dark?  In the past I would open the back door and she'd practically knock the screen out in her hurry to race out and down the steps of the porch to do her business.  She's just an active dog anyway so everything she does requires rushing so as not to miss anything.  These last couple of weeks I call her to go outside, usually around nine o'clock, and she'll race for the door until I open it.  Then she stands there, head lowered ears back, peering around my legs like she thinks the bogeyman is waiting for her out in the yard.  I encourage her to go out, she continues to stand there.  On several occasions she actually turned tail and ran away.

Very perplexing. 

At first I thought she was just being silly so I tossed her butt outside anyway and closed the door, expecting her to get over herself and go do her business.

Instead she crouched on the porch huddled against the door like something was out in the yard that might eat her if I didn't let her in as soon as possible.

I finally had to actually go outside with her, go down the stairs, and stand at the far end of the yard to show her that there was nothing scary in the yard.

Normally she follows me wherever I go.  I stood on the far end of the yard; she crouched on the porch and stared at me with big eyes.

You have got to be kidding me, dog.

For three nights I had to go outside with her, stand at the far end of the yard, call her to come to me, and then stand there and wait for her to pee.  Then the last couple of nights she went outside with  no problem, even after dark, and ran down the porch steps to do her business just like the days of old.  Apparently after witnessing me fling myself into the wild dark unknown and come back unscathed, she decided it was safe to attempt it on her own.

We have had no issues with this since.

I kind of feel like my dog in that respect. Somewhere along the way I lost my confidence. Confidence in my ability to do my job, confidence in my interactions with people, including dating, confidence in my writing.  I've developed fear.  Fear of the unknown.  I stand at the edge of what used to be my life, when I used to know what to expect and be content with that, and stare into the darkness frozen with fear because I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen next.  What will happen if I step out into that unknown darkness?  It used to be a familiar darkness.  We may not know exactly what will happen next every day of our lives, but most of us live a life where we can reasonably expect certain things to go a certain way.  I no longer have that certainty or that expectation.  What was once familiar is now the edge of a cliff and I'm afraid to step over it for fear of falling into something worse.  The alternative is more terrifying - staying frozen in this place for the rest of my life, needing to move forward out into the dark abyss of my backyard but too paralyzed to do it.  Tess doesn't want to go out by herself at night.  She needs me to go out first, cross the yard, and stand at the far end to prove to her that everything is fine and it's safe to pee.  I need a similar guide.  I need someone to walk ahead of me and assure me that everything is going to be okay; to stand at the far end of the yard and encourage me to keep coming because there is nothing to be afraid of.  We're all scared of something though.  The crippling loneliness is what scares me.  It's here in this place I am now if I remain frozen by the door, wishing I could move forward, and it's present should I choose to move forward into the unknown darkness because there is no one to go with me.

Will I lose my job due to economic downturn and budget cuts?

Will I publish my book and become a known author like I've always dreamed?

Will I ever find a kind, decent man to have a relationship with?

Will I recover from my issues, my depression, my anxiety?

What is my purpose in life?

Will I bridge the breaches between me and some friends - breaches I don't understand, breaches I wish never happened?

Will I be okay?  And how can I know?

Tess is different in one respect, though.  She trusts me and follows me blindly.  She is okay now and has no more trouble going out to the yard in the dark.  She had faith that I would lead her into safety even though she didn't know what might await us in the black abyss of my backyard after dark.

I do have someone like that myself.  There is trust and there is belief.  Now I just have to let go and have faith that He will lead me into safety just as I've led Tess.  She trusted me and believed me and she is fine.

Why can't I do the same?

Once again my dog is a wiser role model, someone whose example is worth following.  If she can find the courage to move forward, I should be able to do the same.